Lycopene
by Vergil's Inferno
Summary: Dante has had enough. Disclaimer: the story is mine; the characters are all yours.


He scaled the depths of Hell with a fine toothed comb, clambering through a maze of fire, fear, and death. The closer he got to his destination the cooler it appeared to be, almost as if his father had installed some cruel version of air-conditioning that fed off the frozen souls of the cold-hearted. He made the joke to no one in particular, but couldn't bring himself to laugh or chuckle at his sudden blast of brilliance. His feet were heavy, carrying with them the burden of his decision. Coming here wasn't easy – not only for what he was about to do, but for what the implications up above might be. Honestly, he couldn't be more bothered.

Time had flown after defeating his brother on top of that dreaded tower: the memory itself burned a hole in his psyche, and he waited for the day it would be overwritten upon seeing his brother alive and healthy again. Days turned to months, months turned to years, and he caught himself counting the appearance of his missing sibling to the milliseconds. He never came, yet tomorrow was always another day. He gave up calculating the amount of tomorrows he could withstand being undeniably alone on the surface, so he made the choice to gauge below for what could be the biggest mistake of his life. He slumped his shoulders as he finally located the gigantic ornate bronze door. Why the door was that big he had no clue; if he didn't know the guy he'd swear he was overcompensating for something. He breathed in the humid air hoping for his head to clear before he took his final steps, but it only made him light-headed and dizzy.

Without any prior command, the doors swung open heavily and creaked against its overuse. The oversized chamber was in the same condition as usual; hot and empty with a hovering cloud of red, ashy melancholy. In the middle of the room was a man bound by chains, sitting on his knees and assumingly listing every sin he had ever committed. The chains gave off a chill-to-the-bone screech as the poor soul's entire body shook as he stared at the floor, completely refusing the icy blue gaze of the man in front of him. While he had not yet grabbed the attention of the older man, he took the time to look around at the god-like residence before him. He had been here many times before, but his reasoning for this particular visit had changed the feeling of the room dramatically – he usually enjoyed the countless visits, being the lucky voice of reason for some of its prisoners to run free, but today he was going to be selfish. His future rested within the confines of the room, and he hoped that was what he needed.

"Dante?"

He averted his eyes and found who he was looking for. Sparda's voice woke him from his daydream. Or was it a nightmare? He couldn't tell. He squared his shoulders and dispelled all his anxiety into the steaming floor, watching as fresh flecks of ember rose with his footsteps. "You got a minute? I wanna talk to you about something." His voice was cautiously resolute as it bounced around the room. He gazed earnestly into his father's eyes never breaking contact. Crushing his teeth inside his mouth, he watched as his father's all-powerful expression wavered to sincerity for his son's needs; with a small nod, the criminal was carefully escorted out by servants that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. Seconds of silence ensued as Sparda got comfortable in what his son dubbed the most unnecessarily big chair he had ever seen. His father was no slouch, but even he looked tiny compared to the monstrous piece of furniture.

"Please don't tell me you're here to do what I think you're going to do."

Dante watched his father edge forward. His nerves and senses were on high alert. Sparda would never hurt him, but this was his domain; one wrong move was all it took to send his half-demonic soul to the deepest depths of the earth's core. "You know why I'm here-"

"Yes I do. And you know I'm going to give you the same answer as last time-"

"You can't. There's a limit to how much you're allowed to reject your son." Sparda did not physically wince at the statement, but Dante saw beyond what his father allowed him to see. There were very few times he would actively show any form of emotion, and talking about his sons was a sore spot. He never forgave himself for what he did the way he did it, but it weighed less than having the world on his shoulders, carrying and caring for a family that he placed in permanent danger. No one would understand it like he did, and he accepted that. Trying to convince that fact to the two sons he had abandoned was harder than his initial decision to leave. He was aware of his fate and, if he could, he would do everything in his power to keep his sons from a choice he made when he thought he was doing the right thing; it was, just not for his family – his fragile, defenceless family.

"The answer is no, Dante."

Conviction was lost in his answer as they both stood still, not swayed by Sparda's words. As much as he'd hate to admit it, having Dante with him added a perfect piece to his imperfect puzzle of what remnants of a life he had left; having his family together again after hundreds of years seemed like a distant dream that he could only afford upon his sons' death. With it so close to reality, he was tempted in being greedy once again, but he knew the implications of having him down there. Sparda might not know his son that well, but he knows Dante enough to make the choice for him. "It's a waste for you to be here." Sparda didn't mean it, but he needed to convince himself that it was the right thing to do.

"I'm a waste up there too."

"You're wasting up there, that's completely different." He had missed most of their lives growing up and, although he would never claim to know them as well as he should, there was no reason he couldn't watch and protect them from down below. He took great pride in what his boys had achieved and how powerful they had become, but he wished they had fought for the same side: it would make things much easier. "I'd rather have you waste away by your own thoughts and help the humans who need it than disintegrate here under my command." He glided from the chair to a nearby table housing a tray of crystal glasses and a decanter filled to the brim with what Dante assumed was bourbon. Assumptions were always good six hundred feet underground; it saved you from knowing. "It's not what you want to hear, but this isn't an outcome fit for you."

He proceeded to slowly pour two stiffs drinks. "And how do you know that?"

Sparda smirked the same way Vergil did whenever his judgement was criticised. "I know you better than you think-"

"And how is that exactly?"

Sparda stopped to replace the glass lid on the alcohol. "Because you're nothing like your brother and I know him better than I know you." The words came calmly, and Dante couldn't dispute it. They were never close and neither had made an effort to improve their relationship, but they respected one another – as demons, and as father and son. In a way, Dante was comforted with the fact that the only reason his father was close with his brother was because Vergil jumped into Hell with the intention of becoming the Devil Incarnate. To this day he knew nothing of his brother's fate, but maybe this time no news was good news. His brainwave was cut short when a tumbler crossed the room at the speed of light, strategically landing just short of hitting him square in the face. The liquor swirled around the walls of the glass as it hovered in Dante's line of sight; he sniffed at it, it burned his nasal cavity. Perfect.

Dante grabbed the glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp: the liquid seemed to be hotter than the route he took to get here. The burn left unwelcome singes down his oesophagus – then again, it might not have been the drink scorching his throat. Nevertheless, it made for a good excuse to have another. He walked up to the table where his father stood ready for his refill. "God, you sound just like him."

Again, Sparda poured slow, savouring every drop that landed in the safe confines of Dante's glass. "Get your facts straight – he sounds like me, not the other way around." They raised their tumblers, clinked, downed, swallowed, and made the same wince as the liquid travelled to who knew where. Dante did the signature 'sticking out his tongue' to move some feeling back into the muscle as he watched his father glide across the room to the door of his bed chamber, his big purple coat appearing from nothing to cover the expanse of his broad shoulders. He was halfway over the threshold when he looked inside the room, then turned to his son with a sombre look. "Go home, Dante: start knitting, get a pet, find yourself someone nice and begin adventures and make memories for as long as you can. You don't belong here."

Dante wasn't planning on going anywhere without the answer he came for; he stood completely still, but the determined look in his eyes told Sparda he would follow him wherever he went if he chose to move. Running away wasn't going to solve anything, especially if the person on the other end of the conversation is Dante. "Why do you hate the idea so much? Of me being here."

"It's not you being here; it's you not being up there."

"And why do you care so much about 'up there' all of a sudden?"

"Because you make 'up there' something for me to care about-"

"Oh please, don't give me that crap. You left; you have absolutely no right to decide what is best for them. And while you were down here partying up a storm claiming the thrown for yourself, AGAIN, my brother and I suffered as we tried to fit in as best we could. Fending for ourselves at the age of eight isn't exactly the easiest task in the world, father. I had to live with the guilt that Vergil sacrificed most of everything he earned and achieved to protect and care for me, and what could I do? I cried myself to sleep every night begging Vergil to tell me when you were coming back; he filled your role better than you ever could – you're not even trying now that you actually have one of your sons back." Dante's face was deadpan, careful not to show emotion in front of Mr Evil Personified. Quite frankly, he didn't care. He was on a mission. "Please. Just listen to what I have to say. You can deny me entry now, but it won't stop me from coming back and annoying you every chance that I get; you can fight it all you want, father, but this is going to happen." Once again, Dante prayed Sparda would bite.

And he did; he stepped out of the door he was about to enter and heaved it shut – Dante was confused at hearing it bolt from the other side, but that meant no way out for him; just what he needed. "Fine. What is it that's going to happen?"

The half devil moved smoothly to his father's overbearing chair and plonked onto it with a soft thud, sinking into the spongy, silky material. The image in front of Sparda was amusing somewhat, but all humour was lost in the words that fell from Dante's mouth; the five words he dreaded to hear:

"I want to find Vergil."

Yes, dread, but not in the way it had appeared.

He stared intently at his hands as he started speaking, not wanting his words to be wavered by the man in purple who was now glaring at him. "I'm doing it for me, if you must know. I don't care what it takes; I need to know where he is. If he is here, if I find him and he's far too deep, that will still be okay. As long as I know he's here doing whatever the hell he's doing, that's fine. I have searched all over, followed every lead, I started reading the goddamn newspaper for anything out of the ordinary and so far nothing has come up. A guy like Vergil doesn't just disappear into thin air – he moves with purpose, and not quietly either."

Sparda watched him carefully and then wiped the fatigue from his eyes. "That could take a really long time. To go where you assume he is it could take decades - not even taking into account the fact that the creatures that far down are nothing both of us have ever faced."

"That's why I want your permission to stay here. Your people don't harm me, and I don't harm them. I don't mind killing off hordes and hordes of your beloved faithful soldiers, but it would make things easier for both of us. No precious demon blood gets spilt and we both get what we want: I see my brother, and I'm out of your life. Simple."

The demon grew agitated at the nonchalance of Dante's intended request. He took the moment to stand at the bottom of the small staircase leading to his seat, staring angrily at his son. Sparda squared his jaw, and Dante saw the growing irritation behind his glare. "And what will you say to him, Dante?"

Silence hovered between them thicker than the demented souls that swirled around the room as they spoke. His father was evidently more comprehensive about his reasoning in wanting to stay than him taking permanent residence. "That part I haven't yet figured out, but by the time I reach him I'm positive I'll have some idea-"

"You are making a grave mistake."

The gravel in Sparda's voice disturbed him somewhat. Why would he say something like that? "I've made enough of them to know this one isn't such a big deal." Dante rose to his full height, and only then could he look his father in the eye. "I'm not asking for the world, ya know; I want to see my brother – there's no harm in that."

Sparda stuck out his pinkie finger and tilted his head toward it. "Other than the harm that may befall you…" Now his ring finger. "The anger that will consume you when he's nowhere to be found…" His middle following. "The guilt and anguish when you do and realise he chose to be where he is…" And then his index finger. "The pain in knowing your only family chose the worst existence possible for his own personal gain, not taking you into consideration..." Finally, his thumb. "The relief as you punch him in the face for leaving you…" He looked at his hand as he splayed his fingers for Dante to inspect. "Doesn't look like the walk in a demented psychotic park you hoped it to be, does it?"

Counting down the list of possible things that could go wrong was lost on him; Dante had done it more than twenty three times in the past week, and it saddened him that his father could only think of five. He had twelve minimum each time. It was a few hundred years too late for Sparda to be worried about his son's well-being; maybe he chose to play the role of bad, overly-sensitive cop because Dante was the last of his kin to still be alive by choice. "I will deal with all of that when I need to. Do we have a deal?"

Sparda crossed his arms as he faked a contemplative look; the attempt at intimidation was lost in Dante's aura – he was not moved in the slightest. "Okay, how about this: starting as soon as you leave this place, I will give you your last 24 hours on earth. One more day. If nothing amazing happens during that time, come back and I will give you what you want, no questions asked. After that, I won't try and convince you what a horrible decision you are about to take; I won't watch you as you slowly sink into your own demise – do I make myself clear?"

All he could manage was a smirk. "Crystal." With one word, the man in purple saw a weight lift off his son's chest. The feint glow in his pale skin had returned, and the life that had been lost on his trip here had made its way back into his eyes. Dante tried his best to hide his excitement as he walked across to the bronze door. "And just so you know, you're going to regret this decision." He heaved it open and left without another word.

I already do.

Sparda turned and tapped on his bed chamber door and it immediately unbolted from the inside. Stepping in, he noted the steady rise and fall of the covers. Careful not to accidentally crush any part of the mass, he sat comfortably at the corner closest to the door. "He won't stop until he finds you."

Vergil lifted the covers and sat upright, chewing on a bunch of grapes and giving his father a sweet, innocent smile. "Guilt can do amazing things, father." He popped one into his mouth.

Sparda gave him the most terrible, incredulous scowl he could muster. "This isn't fair; he did nothing wrong."

"You are the one with the poor negotiation skills. You can't say no to him, that's your ultimate problem." Vergil could not look at Sparda; he fixed his concentration on the juicy fruit in his hands and spoke with very little conviction. True, what Dante wanted wasn't fair to all three parties involved. He should have just gone with his gut all those years ago and confronted him, telling him he was just fine. But his pride couldn't handle having to admit he called for his father after he realised his dream of ruling the Underworld took more than a mere dream and determination to come true. After being beaten to a pulp, Sparda came to his son's aid and nursed him back to health. Oh, the irony wasn't lost on either of them. He had been living there ever since, not daring beyond the confines of the huge room – the enemies he had made along the way were still looking to spill his blood.

"Yes, because I don't have the heart to tell him that the person he has been desperately looking for for the past fifty years is actually alive, well, eating my damn food and sleeping on my spare bed rent free. Because I promised that person that his very existence was to be annihilated from all corners of the earth."

"I didn't ask him to look for me; I said what I needed to say to him on top of that tower. What followed after was all me – there is no point in him doing what he wants to, and he can find that out for himself. He's a big boy." He reached for another grape and ate with delight. The fruit was somewhat fresher in hell – weird, given the obscene temperatures.

He plucked at another one and Sparda grabbed at the fruit, yanking it out of his hands. "You must fix this."

Staring at the lone grape in his grasp, Vergil recalled his brother's sense and sensibility when it came to family matters. Granted, they only had each other, so the branch wasn't too big when it came to life and death situations between them. They would both do whatever it took to keep the other safe, and if that meant the possible end of the world, then so it would be. Thankfully it never ended in catastrophe for either side of the food chain. This predicament, however, was troublesome: risk going to Dante and having the underworld find out he is still alive and have hordes of the undead after him, or leave Dante alone with his path and have him potentially disintegrate into a new realm? Neither sat well with Vergil, but Hell had made him greedy. He wanted nothing more than to rot as much as he could for all the years he had abandoned his brother when he needed him most. "Father, when Dante makes up his mind, there's very little that can effectively persuade him-"

"Then you better find something that will blow his damn socks off by tomorrow." Sparda stood abruptly. He was angry beyond belief, and the entire room quaked as it built steadily in the pit of his stomach. The grapes turned to ash as his entire body caught flame and then extinguished, a cool calm replacing his features. "Do this for the only family you have that still gives a shit."

Vergil chuckled as Sparda left to resume his duty, shoving the last grape into his mouth and chomping contently.

It was pouring down with rain when Dante finally made it to Devil May Cry; the thought of hurrying to the front door for the sake of remaining dry seemed useless – he was already drenched in sweat, surviving temperatures designated for the melting of demented human souls, and the cold chill that grazed his skin was more than welcomed. He looked up at the glowing pink sign of his establishment and gave a sad smile: tonight would be the first time in the history of the shop opening that it would be turned off – possibly permanently – and the dull neon outline of the light tubes would only be seen in the light of day. Icy water droplets fell onto his pale skin as he recalled the many memories where he had stood on exactly the same spot, patting himself on the back for a job well done, watching the sign flicker from overheating to remind himself of why he began hunting demons in the first place. What his father understood was far from the truth: he hunted in an effort to bring him close to his lost brother. Dante had hoped that at some point, in whichever gruesome fashion Vergil chose, their paths would cross; all he needed was evidence that he lived, and now, after more than five decades, his mind could be at peace. With nineteen hours and twenty three minutes to go, he entered the building he called home, took off his coat, unplugged the phone, and made some popcorn, chewing as he ran up the stairs to his bedroom.

Dante was running through a field of strawberries and vanilla ice cream when he woke up. The thunder and lightning that had joined the downpour could be heard from miles away, but not so loud as to wake the sleeping demon; the sudden jolt to his senses forced his hazy eyes around his room for any reason as to why he had woken up so suddenly. The hairs at the back of his neck stood on high alert as he tried blinking life back into them. And that was when he heard a knock on his front door. Not a normal knock; the desperate, frenzied, hysterical, panicked knock of a stranger in dire need of help. Dante had never had a customer come directly to his door because that's how he preferred it, but the nagging at the back of his brain told him that this was no customer of his. He ran down the stairs and grabbed his coat, draping it over his shoulders as his eyesight returned. Without hesitation he opened his front door, and what a sorry sight it was: a young man, no more than seventeen years old, stood shivering on his front doorstep; he wore what looked like a uniform of sorts, drenched in rain from head to toe; his eyes were bloodshot from being awake too long, and his complexion looked like he hadn't eaten a healthy meal in months; he was translucent pale from the cold, and the snow-white hair matted to his face made him look terminally ill. He had a bent posture, contorting his body to hide a bandaged arm from Dante's view, making him look like a crazed manifestation of everything you never wanted to see on your doorstep.

But the pleading look in his blue eyes plucked at the strings of Dante's soul; something knowing flashed through his senses as he looked the boy over - no duffel bag and empty pockets could only mean that he was forced onto Dante's doorstep under a peculiar circumstance, not a routine visit with his address and a few dollars pinned to his denim jacket. The teen's eyes lit up when he realised the door stayed open longer than usual and Dante wasn't planning on slamming the door in his face; Dante couldn't decide whether or not the streaks down his face were water droplets or tears, and asking the question wasn't exactly on his to-do list. The stranger took a breath to begin his speech, but Dante harnessed his human side and grabbed him by his good wrist, carefully flinging him into the house. Closing the door, the half demon quickly ran to his bathroom and collected every dry towel he owned and wrapped it around his visitor, leading him to his makeshift sitting room – comprised of two double couches and a fireplace – and sitting him down as he worked on starting a fire.

The teen stared incredulously at the bigger man and took a deep breath to calm himself before attempting to speak again. Dante put a hand up in his direction, quelling his endeavour. "Don't bother. We can talk in the morning. For now you need to rest." The fire was a success and instantly heated the entire bottom half of the building. Dante stood to make his way to the kitchen but was stopped in his tracks by the bandaged arm: the fact that he was using it suggested no need for the thick material to exist, and wrapped up to his fingers nonetheless. He almost missed the feint blue glow from underneath when the stranger spoke.

"Can I please just-"

"No." Dante turned his attention away from his arm. There was something about him, something so vaguely familiar, but it was too early to think. "Lie down for a second; I'm gonna see if there's anything in the fridge."

The boy on the couch hesitated for a second before Dante felt him loosen the weak grip on his forearm. He felt his gaze burn a hole in the back of his head as he ventured into the kitchen he barely used, looking for something remotely edible. Thanking whatever lucky star that happened to be watching over him, he located two tins of leek and potato soup in the very back of the furthest cupboard; it could only be Vergil that left it there, knowing one day he might finally get sick of eating pizza every day. Grabbing a pot, which he also knew he never had, he popped open the two cans and emptied their contents inside. The smell wafting in the kitchen wasn't particularly awful, but he needed only to endure it for a few minutes; as it started to boil, he stole a glance into his lounge – the boy had moved closer to the fire, warming up significantly in just a few minutes. His shoulders still trembled with cold, but he was happier he had a roof over his head.

If the teen was being honest, the roof didn't matter. Ever since he arrived on the rusty shores of the town, he had been to at least a dozen houses before arriving at Dante's shop. Each person had either shooed him away or screamed his head off telling him what time it was. The best ones were the individuals who almost let him in but then saw the massive blue glow and threatened to call the authorities if he didn't leave in the next ten seconds; little did he know that the authority they would call was currently cooking him a meal. The warmth of the fire was pleasant on his fingertips and heated the towels covering him, and nearly lost himself in the heat of the moment when he felt a big, scorching bowl being thrust in his direction. He quickly got comfortable, snatching the closest towel and laid it across his lap, ready for his meal.

"I don't usually make this, so I'm guessing it's a little warm." Dante handled it bare-handed, cautiously placing it in the space the teen had made for it. He could feel the intense heat radiating from the bowl, yet somehow his host carried it in his bare hands; he placed his hands on either side and he was sure his bandage almost caught fire. The teen looked across to Dante who had plonked himself next to him and handed him a spoon, wondering if he had a secret pair of oven mitts nearby.

The soup smelled like music to his ears; he seized the spoon in Dante's hand and shoved as much soup as his mouth would allow; it burned as it traversed down his throat and through his body, warming him from the inside out. A sigh of relief escaped his chest as he ate more and more, taking full advantage of his host's kindness. "What do you usually make?" He swooped in for a big spoonful.

"A phone call... to the pizza place around the corner…"

There wasn't enough momentum for the soup to reach the fire, so it sprayed helplessly across Dante's wooden floor and dribbled down the side of the stranger's mouth; the raucous laughter emitting from the tiny body on his floor alarmed him as he watched him clutch at his stomach – how the soup managed to survive he'd never know. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh, but the way you answered was so funny."

Dante acknowledged the compliment with a small nod and a smirk. Unfortunately for him, his mind was a million miles away. For so long, he had waited for a sign, anything, from anyone, to give him a reason to stay. He knew Vergil was never coming back, but it seemed a good enough excuse for him to wait out any new possibilities that may come by. No such occurrence in fifty odd years, but all of a sudden, on his last night, on his last damn day as anything tenuously human, the possibility of redemption lands on his doorstep. Maybe redemption was too farfetched a word, but why now, of all times? This was all he needed; this was all it would have taken for his mindset to do a complete three-sixty, and now Dante was experiencing the dread he had anticipated. Stay or go?

"You don't talk much, do you?" He was back in his spot finishing the last droplets of his meal.

"Oh, you'd be surprised, kid." Dante reached out his hand and was given the bowl.

"Nero."

"What?" He cradled the cutlery in hands waiting for his visitor to repeat himself.

The teen scratched shyly behind his ear and ran his hand through his fringe, pushing a mop of hair out of his face. "My name is Nero." Dante eyed him suspiciously as Nero turned his head to look at the fire while he went to the kitchen to clean up. Filling both the cooking pot and bowl with hot water, he scrubbed unnecessarily hard against the only-used-once crockery; he was sure his mind was playing tricks on him, and to dwell on the image would most likely rip his mind to pieces. He was already overthinking everything that had started happening two hours ago and it was turning into a puzzle he didn't want to complete.

Dante triple checked the status of the dishes before turning to Nero, sitting lonely at the dying fire. He moved swiftly to the cupboard holding the spare bedding and pulled out two feather pillows and a thick, layered blanket; the evening had turned warmer after the thunderstorm, but the prevention of hypothermia was better than curing it, considering the time he had left. But he was making a fatal mistake each time he looked at Nero – the deal he had made with his father stipulated that if nothing had come up in the following twenty four hours he would join the Underworld; Dante treated the Underworld as a definite instead of using his situation as a way to get out of Hell. The ultimate question was: was he choosing to ignore the fact that he had a way out?

Nero waved a hand in front of Dante's face and he woke from his daydream. He had no clue he was staring into nothingness until his visitor claimed the spare bedding to make a suitable bed on the couch closest to the fire. Nero managed to wake the sleeping embers and set his clothes on the floor in front of it to soak up the heat for it to be dry the next morning. "I'm really pooped. You mind if I clock off?"

Dante slowly nodded. "Don't die on me kid; I put in a lot of effort to keep you alive for the next nine hours." They both smiled heartily; they had both taken the role of 'saviour' that night. This was the beginning of something Dante couldn't turn away from, regardless of its significance.

"I'll try my best… ummm-"

"Dante."

Nero fluffed the blanket so most of it hung over the back of the couch, reducing the chance of any cold air to enter into his heat-induced cocoon. "Hmm. Suits you."

He unconsciously smiled to himself. "We can talk in the morning. Just get your colour back, you're creeping me out." The humour never left his tone, and it proved difficult for Dante to hold his giggle until he was out of earshot. The sound of Nero's laugh bounced off the walls and followed Dante all the way up the stairs to his bedroom door.

The normal procedure of waking up involved the act of slowly opening your eyes, taking in the full scale of the day; rolling around a few times to gauge whether your body needed more sleep; eventually giving up and moving to a sitting position, stretching your muscles and starting your daily routine – in Devil May Cry, no such thing happened. Nero's sense of smell was attacked by the sudden onset of melted cheese, tomato, and cooked dough. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that Dante was looming over him, pizza box in hand, as if the aroma alone was to bring him back to life. He obediently sat up, looking at Dante who showed off his best 'if-you-won't-take-it-I-will' face.

"The carbs will warm you up. You're gonna need your strength today."

Nero hadn't realised how hungry he was until he grabbed at the first slice and packed it into his mouth with no remorse. It rang bells on his palate and he couldn't think of anything that could have tasted better. Dante moved quickly to the kitchen and grappled at two cups of coffee he had prepared while Nero enjoyed his last few seconds of sleep, placing one in front of him. Out of habit he had made both black with a tiny hint of milk and a pinch of sugar; Vergil drank it that way, and Dante had followed suit since the first cup they shared. Nero watched with a cautious eye as he set it down. "If there's poison in there, it better taste really damn good."

Dante put his hand to his chest, meekly offended. "No poison; just good, old-fashioned liquid death." He took a generous swig of the only source of energy for his day and Nero followed suit, relishing the taste as it burned down his throat. He turned his attention to the pizza, devouring the second slice quicker than the first.

"I know this might be an odd question to ask now, but why are you being nice to me?"

It was a good question; it wasn't often anyone would welcome a stranger from anywhere into their home, especially in this town. It wasn't the desperate look in Nero's eyes, the way his small body shivered under the cold, or the fact that Dante deduced he had nowhere to go: the humanity switch nagging the back of his head did an unusual one-eighty as soon as he opened the door. He was subconsciously pulled toward helping and caring for Nero whether he chose to or not. It was very seldom this stretch of benevolence allowed itself to show through and he couldn't ignore it. His body moved on autopilot that brought sickening warmth to his chest, making the decision harder. "Call it paternal instinct. It didn't seem like you had much of a choice; you looked as if you visited every house on this street with no luck."

"I did. You were the only one without a gun to my head." Nero's cheeks were puffed with pizza when he chuckled. "I knew I'd get lucky at some point."

Dante went back to the kitchen and brought the pot of coffee with him, refilling their mugs. "Why don't we just cut to the part where you tell me how you landed up here in the first place?"

"Well," he began, chewing slowly to get the words out, "I was in my room back at headquarters; just finished my shift so my only plans were to shower and jump into bed. Got to my room and I guess I didn't anticipate getting my brains knocked out. I didn't get a good look, but I know it was a guy; I remember hearing a deep grunt and something muffled before I completely passed out. If I heard it again I'd know immediately." Nero reached at the penultimate slice and thought twice – recalling the journey to Dante's doorstep made him lose his appetite. Dante stopped mid sip, now more curious for the story to continue. He took a deep breath before carrying on. "When I came to, an old lady was poking me with a stick. She offered to help but I ran away like the idiot I am for what reason I don't know; if I had known everyone in this town would turn me down I would have happily gone with her. Anyway, after I almost decided to give up an old man came from nowhere and told me about a shop with a bright pink sign: he said the person living there will definitely help me." He put the pizza down and gulped at his refill. "I stood for a while looking for a damn pink light and didn't see a thing. You'd assume it would stick out like a sore thumb, but I didn't account for it being switched off, with it being late and all. But then I saw the frame of your sign and hoped to God it was pink; I thought to take a chance and knock. The rest you know."

Dante continued drinking his coffee, feeling slightly guilty that he chose to switch the neon sign off. At least the story sounded true, except for one part. "An old man?"

"I didn't see him, but he sounded old. One of those weathered gruff voices. Like he knew what he was talking about. Or maybe someone relatively old putting on a deeper voice, I'm not sure."

He mocked disapproval, clicking his tongue on the bridge of his mouth. "And you listened to a complete stranger?"

Dante missed the sarcastic rant from his visitor that ensued; he proceeded to nod in agreement while his mind wired onto the detail of the old man. It had been a while since he'd seen a man of any age roam around the streets at that time of the evening, and that wasn't even the scary part. Very few people, customers included, knew what Dante did for a living – all they knew was that something was 'wrong' and that he 'fixed' it. The man in Nero's tale must have known he hunted demons and he must have known Nero would need him somehow. And Dante knew why; he waited until the rant was over before asking the only question he needed the answer to.

"What about your arm? I can call an ambulance-"

Nero smiled. "No need." He set his makeshift breakfast down as his other hand rubbed roughly on the material. "But you have to promise me you won't freak out." He said it as a safeguard to protect his own conscience and didn't bother waiting for Dante's reply; he ran his hand up and down the offending cloth looking for the loose end.

"These gorgeous eyes have seen more than its fair share of crazy, don't worry."

Sparda took an anxious look at his watch, tapping the Perspex face in time with its routine ticks; with each tick, his face grew grimmer in anticipation of his youngest son's visit. Some part deep inside of him had the slightest bit of hope in seeing Dante turning down the offer made the day before, but if Dante had a plan, it took the Earth moving off its axis to alter his thinking – this decision was overshadowed by the sheer determination and longing for comfort, safety, support, and pure need that could only manifest in someone who could return it with equal vigour, and that's what made it scarier. Nothing would stop him and – for the first time in his entire life – he hoped Vergil had succeeded in his task.

Sparda's nerves were on edge. It didn't help when the giant bronze door opened suddenly and Vergil's face popped through before fully entering the chamber. He would hate to interrupt the sweet reunion of father and other son. "Don't get your hopes up just yet. Dante is punctual, so he'll be here not a minute sooner or later than his twenty four hour demarcation." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion – not usually a good sign.

"And you think that helps me?" Sparda was as calm as a snowstorm and spoke as Vergil walked across the room. "I hate to say this, but I honestly wished he had the same bullshit exterior you have: feeling nothing, having no conscience, being the epitome of brutality he was meant to be. Instead he is someone that I hoped he wouldn't be that suits him perfectly." Vergil couldn't help but smile at the accuracy of his father's statement, and he knew his brother better than anyone. "Don't get it twisted, I love being wrong; gives me something to think about while I dish out half-hearted punishments to those who don't deserve it."

The final judgement could only come once Dante arrived – which should be any second – but something about the way Vergil carried himself at this particular moment registered in the pit of his stomach; he had a offhand cocky aura swirling him that could only mean one thing: either he was over-confident or things really went his way and managed to pull it off. Only time would tell. "But that doesn't matter now. All that matters is that whatever you had brewing in that messed up head of yours is good enough for-"

Vergil dissipated into a blue cloud of smoke as the big door opened again and Dante stuck his head through. Sparda stood sternly; a little bit anxious that Dante was six minutes early. The chamber shook with the sudden action and a surge of power caused a violent ripple to flow a few miles outward from his seat. The door trembled against his son's fingertips as he scoped the room. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. Please come through." As his son entered the humid space, he turned his attention to a second scent outside of the door – reasonably familiar and very strong, intoxicating and generous on his senses, yet leaving an oaky aftertaste on his tongue – as his kin trekked toward him; there was a powerful heat signature outlining the exact position from which the new scent came, which led Sparda to believe that something unbelievably dangerous had entered Hell but was calm as a cucumber. Given the proximity, he should be storming the walls of the dungeon with brute force and annihilating the potent creature walking his territory, but Dante entered unscathed a few inches from it, leading him to believe it meant no harm. Still…

"I'd hate to interrupt your inner monologue, but I don't plan on staying long."

The latter half of that statement caught his attention. "Oh. So I take it something has changed your mind."

Dante turned and looked straight at the squiggly mess of hot air outside the door. "Indirectly, yes; I don't think I can fulfil my end of the bargain today. Maybe sometime in the future I might be back, but something has come up. Someone actually, as you had hoped. I have a lot of unfinished business as of last night, and my mind is telling me this is something that needs to be done. I have absolutely no clue why, but I can't let this go."

Sparda feigned disappointment; he couldn't be happier. "If that is what you wish – besides, this could possibly lead you to something better than what you were looking for. Take all the time you need, the Underworld isn't going anywhere. I'll see what I can dig up this side, but I can't make any promises."

Father and son shared a light chuckle, both getting rid of the subtle hint of uneasiness to their interaction. "No need. Just sit in your overly-compensating chair and look handsome." The demons shared a moment of confident silence as Dante turned to leave the musty room to his uncertain future.

"One last thing, Dante. The key is walking; run out of here and you'll faint from heatstroke or overexposure to toxins." Dante knew that; gosh, everybody in hell knew that, but he would rather deal with those than having to buy new products to return his hair back to its usual flawless state. With a sarcastic smile and overly feminine thumbs up, he left the chamber, leaving the door ajar 'for some air'.

He and Nero caught eyes and the teen gave him a once over. "No scratches?"

"That's my father in there; if he wanted to hurt me, I'd be waddling out the door missing my legs and fingers. Maybe it's a fetish." Nero winced – that was not an image worth saving in the memory bank. He flexed and shook his fingers, human and non-human, and toes respectively, trying to imagine a life without them. He then made a mental note not to piss him off should he ever find his unfortunate way back here. "You ready to get out of here?" His new caretaker was already a few yards ahead when he popped the question and Nero hurried in fear he would lose his way.

And that's when he heard it.

It was really short, but he would never forget it. The voice of the man who attacked him on his home island travelled the expanse of the room and hit Nero square in the face, where he opted to stop out of pure shock. Yesterday he had no chance to experience all of the emotions he should have, so it was only natural to turn in a blind rage toward the huge door: it wasn't clear, but there were definitely two people in the room, and judging by their postures and the nature of the environment this encounter was friendlier than the ones he imagined when he and Dante made the trip. He was drawn to the small gap left by Dante attempting to make sense of the situation.

Dante, on the other hand, walked – not ran, walked – across the hot expanse of surface area they had traversed a few minutes ago. He only noticed hearing one set of footsteps after a few steps, turning and watching Nero's face contort from anger to confusion and back again. Nero whipped his head from Dante back through the gap enough times to make him curious. "Changed your mind about meeting him?"

Nero put a finger over his mouth and mouthed something Dante couldn't quite make out. Taking a deep sigh, he trod the path back to Sparda's chamber. "What is it?"

"My attacker is in there."

Dante moved swiftly to his side and discreetly closed the door – he wasn't in the mood to take a chance on Sparda's sharp senses. "Are you sure?"

"I don't recognise him, but I'd know that voice anywhere." Dante could sense the panic wracking his body; he did well trying to hide it, but there was definitely something else going on with Nero. As far as he knew his father didn't look scary enough to illicit this particular response. "But something isn't right."

The look in Nero's eyes chilled his core. "What you wanna do, kid?"

Sparda heard the room to his bedroom open, expecting a smug, satisfied look on his son's face; instead, Vergil's expression was tainted by the horrible truth of his actions that he had yet to reveal to his father. But his angst was visibly dominated by the king of Hell's outright happiness at the situation. Dante wouldn't be back in a really long time. The thought sung well in his mind, and because the look on Vergil's face contradicted the very atmosphere of the room, Sparda said, "Whatever you did to keep him away from here, and I probably will hear about it soon, I applaud you. You will not be punished-"

"But I want to be." His voice was soft and sincere, like he carried the world on his shoulders uttering those few words. The comment was strange coming out of Vergil's mouth, so Sparda followed his instincts to laugh at the statement. Meeting his son's eyes lodged the chuckle in his throat and he fell silent, now completely worried. "You might not understand-"

And it was at that moment that Dante burst through the door, Nero following suit, watching a lone tear roll down his brother's cheek.


End file.
